SCHOLARS

SCHOLARS

As I LAY ASLEEP, a sheep ate at the ivy-wreath on my head—ate and said: “Zarathustra is no longer a scholar.”

It said this and went away stiffly and proudly. A child told me this.

I like to lie here where the children play, beside the ruined wall, among thistles and red poppies.

I am still a scholar to the children, and also to the thistles and red poppies. They are innocent even in their malice.

But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar: thus my fate will have it-bless it!

For this is the truth: I have left the house of the scholars and slammed the door behind me.

My soul sat hungry at their table for too long: I have not been schooled, as they have, to crack knowledge as one cracks nuts.

I love freedom and the air over fresh soil; I would rather sleep on ox skins than on their honors and dignities.

I am too hot and scorched with my own thought: often it is ready to take away my breath. Then I have to go into the open air and away from all dusty rooms.

But they sit coolly in the cool shade: they want to be mere spectators in everything and they take care not to sit where the sun burns on the steps.

Like those who stand in the street and gape at the passers-by: thus they too wait and gape at the thoughts that others have thought.

If one lays hold of them they involuntarily raise a dust like sacks of flour: but who could guess that their dust came from corn and from the yellow delight of summer fields?

When they pose as wise their petty sayings and truths make me shiver: their wisdom often smells as if it came from the swamp; and it’s true, I have even heard the frog croak in it!

They are clever, they have nimble fingers: what is my simplicity next to their multiplicity! Their fingers understand all threading and knitting and weaving: thus they knit the socks of the spirit!

They are good clocks: only be careful to wind them up properly! Then they indicate the hour without mistake and making a modest noise.

They work like mills and like pestles: just throw seed corn to them!-they know how to grind corn small and make white dust out of it.

They keep a sharp eye on one another and do not properly trust each other. Ingenious in little artifices, they wait for those whose knowledge walks on lame feet—they wait like spiders.

I have seen how carefully they prepare their poisons; and they always put on glass gloves to do it.

They also know how to play with loaded dice; and I found them playing so eagerly that they sweated.

We are strangers to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to my taste than their falsehoods and false dice.

And when I lived with them I lived above them. Therefore they took a dislike to me.

They wanted to hear nothing of any one walking above their heads; and so they put wood and earth and rubbish between me and their heads.

Thus they muffled the sound of my steps: and so far I have been least heard by the most learned.

All mankind’s faults and weaknesses they put between themselves and me—in their houses they call it a “false ceiling.”

But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts above their heads; and even if I walk on my own errors, still I am above them and their heads.

For men are not equal: so speaks justice. And what I desire they may not desire!—

Thus spoke Zarathustra.